7 Days

The transformation is complete. I take a gasping breath. Who am I this time? I quickly look around. I’m in a kitchen. People around me are working at the many counters, some mixing dough, others putting finishing touches on creations. I look down. I’m wearing an apron and my male hands are covered in flour. In front of me is some sugar cookie dough rolled out. It’s a bakery. I reason that it may be easier to pretend I know what I’m doing than if this had been a full restaurant kitchen, with many recipes to learn on the fly. I realize baking can be a sophisticated and delicate craft, but hopefully I’m not expected to be at that level. I remember being a teenaged girl about 40 weeks ago, give or take. I was watching my grandmother make cookies. I take the cookie cutter and start pressing it in the dough, trying keep the circles close to have less dough to reroll. Just when I’m feeling proud of myself for jumping right into the situation, a woman walks up behind me and yells, “Walters, pick up the pace! You should have had two batches in the oven by now. Either finish or I’ll hire the next homeless person who comes through the door begging for a handout.” She’s intense, with her hair pulled back severely in a bun, arms behind her back like a drill sergeant. I’m thankful that customers are not privy to this rant.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly.

“Yes, CHEF Rebecca!” she shrieks, correcting me at an even higher pitch and decibel.

“Yes, Chef Rebecca,” I say with more conviction. My hands are shaking in a nervous effort to work faster. When I fill the ¼ sheet, remembering to leave some room for rising, I look around, wondering which oven they’re supposed to go in.

“Joe,” says a soothing female voice, “Here,” A short, young chef with sweet, brown eyes opens an oven. I put the sheet in, mumble, “Thank you,” and go back to the dough.

She sets a timer and says to me, “What’s up with you? You’re not acting like yourself today.”

I laugh weakly. “Well, it’s not like someone else is inhabiting my body or anything.” (The truth, but she would never believe it.)

I, now Joe Walters, bakery chef, do not know who I really am. My consciousness goes from one body, which dies the following Thursday, to another, always for one week. I remember many of the people whom I have occupied, but I don’t remember my own life, if I had one, and I certainly I don’t know why this is happening. I shake my head to concentrate on this pretty bakery chef. She does the cutest giggle in response to my ridiculous statement about body occupation. She whispers softly, tickling my ear, “Joe, Chef Rebecca is going to fire you if you don’t step it up.”

I throw my hands heavenward. “Why am I working in this place anyway? Clearly, she doesn’t like me.” (Seems like a fair question to me)

The petite chef points a finger at me and says forcefully, “You know Chef Rebecca doesn’t like anyone. Don’t you quit on me now! You said you’d have your share saved up in another two months.” She waves her hands frantically, wrinkles her little nose, and starts walking away, saying, “I can’t talk with you right now. I’ve got my own work to do. We’ll chat when we eat.

I am working up a sweat. The kitchen is hot, and the job is demanding. I cut out thousands of cookies, and then I am put on frosting duty. At least I can handle everything which is asked of me. I learn by listening to others in the kitchen that the cute chef is named Amy.

I learn several things when I take a bathroom break. According to the driver’s license in Joe’s wallet, I’m 24, and I live on Delaney Avenue. Joe’s phone shows that to be eight blocks north.

Normal lunchtime came and went. I reason that bakers don’t have regular hours since they start much earlier than most businesses, but I’m hoping to eat soon. By the time it’s 2:00, my stomach is voicing its neglect. Finally, the cute chef says, “Let’s go.” She leads me out a back door. Judging from the fact that she’s carrying a jacket and a purse, our workday is over. I’ll be happy to be off my feet. We walk about three blocks to a nearby park. Amy pulls a basket out from under her jacket and places it on a picnic table.

“Thanks, Amy,” I say, “I’m starving.”

She does that cute little giggle. “Me too.” She pulls out some fresh bread, sliced meat and cheese, carrot sticks, and a bottle of wine and sits next to me.

We probably would have been carded at a bar, but I assume Amy is over 21.

I gesture to the wine and ask, “What’s the occasion?”

She blushes. I want to kiss her cheek so badly. She says, “The occasion is that I was asked to get a bottle of wine for a customer and managed to grab two. After what Rebecca put you through today, you deserve it, and so do I.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. She lingers. The food forgotten; I hungrily go for her lips instead. She moans, but then she pulls away and says, “Later, you horny devil,” with the giggle I quite love.

I remember what she said in the bakery about “my share.” I don’t want to give away the fact that I don’t know what we’re saving for, so I ask Amy, “Are you going to have your share saved up in two months?”

She looks at me, wrinkling her brows. “I can’t believe you’re on about that again. Did you bump your head and forget everything from the last week? I told you I’ve got my share. You wouldn’t let me cover your remainder. Is it that you’re reconsidering my offer? After all, that piece of property might be sold out from under us. I really think our idea to open our own bakery on the other side of town will work. Just think, we could end up making wedding cakes for famous people. We could be featured in magazines!”

I smile in spite of my trepidations about this idea, especially knowing I won’t be around for much longer, but her excitement is contagious.

I say, “No, I still want to earn my share. I was just making sure you’re still set.”

As we start nibbling on the food, she continues, “You do all the breads, cookies, and batters, and I do all of the decorating. It’s a perfect pairing. I can go over our written proposal with you again when we get home, if you like. You really have been flighty. I hope it’s just a bit of nerves.”

At least I know we live together now. I run my hand through my hair, trying to think of what to say. I settle for, “Yeah, that’s it. Nerves.”

We finish our meal and head home. I slip my hand into hers. It feels right. Her smile melts my heart. When we get home, she practically throws me against the wall and kisses my lips with a passion I have only experienced twice in my memory, which is amazing considering how many lives I have lived in the last thousand weeks or so. It’s not difficult to play along, as I am just as smitten as she is. We make our way down a hallway, shedding clothing as we go. Afterward, we collapse in satisfaction. I’m smiling so fully that my cheeks hurt. Her face mirrors mine, all smiles.

Amy says, “I really like that last thing you did.”

I start tracing imaginary lines on her body and say, “I’ll remember that.”

Later, while she’s taking a shower, I find the business proposal on the kitchen counter. I remembered learning things about finance while inhabiting the body of a businesswoman many weeks ago. This looks like a solid business plan. Amy has determined that the only bakery on the other side of town is in a grocery store, specializing in breads, cookies, and pies. Somehow, I must fast-track this plan before I leave this body next Thursday. I have an idea, but I’ll need some luck to pull it off.

The next day, I work my tail off again, but during breaks, I make some inquiries. I learn that my plan will work, but I will need Amy’s help.

While we’re eating at the picnic table after work, I tell her, “I have a way to make my share this weekend, but I need your help. I called around to retirement homes and asked if they would let me sell fresh breads and cookies. All of them agreed to let me sell directly to residents and employees. It’s also a way to get future customers. We will need to set up tables at two places on Saturday and two on Sunday. I calculate if we make and sell 14 loaves of bread, 20 pieces of chocolate cake, and 8 dozen cookies, we’ll have enough. Do you think we can make that much by tomorrow morning?”

Amy’s grin could have lit up New York during a power outage. She grabs me into a tight hug and says, “I knew you’d find a way! Of course, we’ll do it, even if we have to stay up all night.”

Too bad we don’t have the bakery kitchen and the industrial mixers to work with. By the time we are done with the cookies, I don’t want to look at another cookie for the rest of my life. Well, this life anyway. After kneading dough for all the bread while Amy decorates cookies, my arms felt as useless as noodles at a taco stand. We work on the chocolate cakes together, saving just one piece to share.

Our products sold out everywhere we took them Saturday and Sunday.

We put in the offer for the building and it is accepted. While we’re having a celebratory meal, I address Amy, “I put all of my money into the bakery, so I don’t have a ring, but will you marry me after we earn enough to buy one for you?”

Tears are streaming down her face. She laughs and says, “It’s about time you asked, you… you, doofus! I love you.”

I kiss her warmly and say, “I love you too.”

We both put in our two-week notices on Monday morning. Rebecca keeps calling Amy into her office. She is clearly upset, but I don’t think twice about it. We are on cloud nine.

Tuesday and Wednesday, Rebecca is particularly grouchy. I can do nothing right. Thursday, as I am opening a 50-pound bag of flour, it explodes all over, leaving a cloud of dust. Rebecca comes in, red-faced. She turns around and stomps into her office. When she comes back, she is holding a pistol.

Rebecca yells, “You!” pointing the gun at me. Everyone freezes in place. Some gasp. She continues to yell, “You are taking the only person I’ve ever loved away from me.” She takes a side glance at Amy.

Amy’s mouth drops open. She says, “Rebecca…”

But Rebecca interrupts, continuing to shout at me, her expressions are a mixture of anger and pain. “Ever since YOU came along, it’s ‘Amy this, Amy that.’ You couldn’t just leave her alone, and now you’re taking her from me.”

Bang! The gun goes off. I don’t feel the impact immediately. I feel wetness on my chest. I hear Amy scream. Another shot rings out, and Rebecca collapses with blood quickly pooling around her. I can’t stay on my feet any longer. I feel like I’m falling to the hard floor in slow motion.

Amy kneels beside me. I manage to say, “I’m sorry. I love you.” Then everything goes dark.

I feel the rush of wind, taking me to my next body.

Thank you for reading! You can find the first in this series here.

Here is the next: